Scattered
by august iv
Summary: He shouldn't be upset by this, he knew, it's the three words they had been implying, demonstrating towards one another since they'd met.
1. He Knew

"I hate you."  
  
The words echoed in his ears, repeating and fading in uneven variables.  
  
"I hate you."  
  
Draco caught himself, having almost fallen as he blindly staggered away from the Great Hall. He was going as fast as his legs would carry him, but he felt like lead, and his legs weren't used to carrying such a heavy burden.  
  
"I hate you."  
  
He sighed and fell against the cold, stone wall of the castle. He shouldn't be upset by this, he knew, it's the three words they had been implying, demonstrating towards one another since they'd met. He knew he shouldn't be upset, he knew Harry hated him, he knew he hated Harry in return, but it was much nicer when he just knew instead of having been told.  
  
"I hate you."  
  
It began to rain, he noted as a drop of water landed on the ground before him. He knew it was raining because, well, where else would a drop of water fall from, if not the sky? Not him, certainly. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys don't cry, he knew. He had always been taught that. Though the teaching wasn't necessary – he had already known it, and he still did know it – he just did not cry.  
  
"I hate you."  
  
He knew he wasn't crying, just like he knew Harry hated him, and he knew he hated Harry.

.

.

.

Although sometimes, he felt as if he didn't know anything anymore. 


	2. Caffeine High

"Wee...!"  
The entire Slytherin common room was in shock.  
"Bloody hell, you guys, this is insane! I love this song! It's like the friggin best song ever- bloody hell, that shirt is totally the coolest thing ever bloody hell where'd you get it?!"  
And so on. It was quite unusual to see young master Malfoy so talkative (especially in such an undignified manner of speech), let alone almost literally bouncing off the walls. Some of his classmates attempted to continue as if nothing was amiss, sure this was nothing but a joke "...or something." Some were a stones throw from hanging and gaping with their jaws hanging open.  
"...bloody hell, were you guys there when Peeves dropped a pitcher of pumpkin juice on Dean Thomas's head? It was hi-friggin-larious. He started totally freaking out, bloody hell!"  
The only muggle born in the house (although no one knew it – and none ever would) wondered secretly if wizards could get ADHD. Many wondered if maybe he'd banged his head a bit too hard in his last scrap with Potty and his weasel. Another wondered if he had had one too many butterbeers, for he bounced around with a bottle in his hand.  
Really, though, he hadn't and wasn't drinking butterbeer at all. Awhile back a muggle born had brought Mt. Dew to Hogwarts. Draco and his gang of course stole it all to destroy it, refusing to let the muggle borns have their fun.  
Draco, wondering what all the fuss was about, had to try it (secretly – none of the others could ever know he had defiled himself with such muggle filth).  
But it was good. Very good.  
And strangely addicting.  
Draco stole a few cans from that which was to be destroyed, and disguised them in empty butterbeer bottles. Unaware of the consequences, he had drunk almost 5 bottles worth in quick succession.  
Hence, he was bouncing off the walls in a very undignified, very un- Malfoy-like way.  
Of course, none of the other Slytherins had any experience with caffeine; hence they could not recognize said caffeine high.  
  
.

_fine_

.  
  
Author notes: Yeah, so it wouldn't ever happen. Big deal. I just wanted a story that could/would have the title caffeine high, ok?  
  
References: Er, none, really, though I guess "hi-friggin-larious" was taken from when a friend said it once in a conversation.


	3. Bitter Vanity

Long, slender tendrils slowly but strongly wrapped themselves around the boy. Raised vain, he had no way to overcome it, or know to overcome it. He lifted his head proudly, beautifully, elegantly; yes, very elegantly, and this he knew, he knew even the action of merely lifting his head was beautiful. It had to be so, he knew, his mother told him, his father told him, his grandmother told him…growing up where prestige was everything, and prestige was recognized by presence, appearances were everything. So he carefully carried himself through every motion, large or small, significant or menial, and he was always beautiful.


End file.
